Not My Area
by idlyby221
Summary: Pre-Reichenbach, AU. "Thirty-six percent of men think about sex every half hour." That sounds a little high for Sherlock. J/S, fumbling to figure out feelings. First Sherlock fic


_For Perny, with love_

* * *

><p>Running about London with Sherlock is fine, don't get John wrong. Just today they made their way across half the city on foot, too hurried to stop for a cab. And he fine with that. He doesn't trust cabs much these days, anyway. But he <em>is<em> exhausted. It's nice to pause a moment to put his feet up, half-watching the telly, while Sherlock's sprawled over the armchair opposite, reading his newspaper –

No.

Yes. Sherlock is reading his newspaper upside-down.

Almost at once, Sherlock casts the paper aside and swings his body around in the chair, his eyes narrowed at the television screen. "That's ridiculous."

John fumbles for the remote and hits mute. "Sherlock, you've got to stop taking these shows so seriously. They're meant for entertainment purposes only, not accuracy."

"Thirty-six percent of men think about sex every half hour?" Sherlock's using that dangerous voice of his again, the high-pitched one he uses to mimic things he thinks are beneath him. The one that makes John want to punch him half the time. "I fail to see how that's even possible."

John sees a long battle ahead. He switches the telly off fully and says, "Coming from you, I'm not really surprised."

"Not really my area," Sherlock murmurs, still staring at the blank screen. "It'd make a fascinating case study, though."

"Sorry, what? You'd rather _study_ it?" Harry's sure at this point nothing Sherlock says should surprise John anymore, and sometimes John wishes that were the case. Seventeen months of living with the bloody man, and he makes no more sense to John than the first time they met.

"The things people do for sex," Sherlock is saying. "It's very strange. I'm not sure I understand in the least how _transport_ can be so captivating. Then again, maybe you could enlighten me."

Suddenly, the crackling fire in the grate is too much. John tugs awkwardly at the collar of his jumper. "I don't think that's quite it. It's more than just transport. It's –" How to explain these things in terms Sherlock could possibly understand? "Your heart and soul, connecting with those of another person. One body. One mine. It's beautiful."

Sherlock's squinting in that way he does when he's trying and failing to understand. Probably something about sharing a mind with another person. John can imagine that would put him off. He opens his mouth to explain at the same time as Sherlock says, "Are you embarrassed? Your breathing rate has gone up and your pupils are dilated. Perhaps I could just study _you_."

John gapes at him.

Tries to form words.

What comes out is a weak, "Don't do that _thing_."

"What thing?"

The thing where Sherlock observes and sees everything John doesn't want him to see. He feels like a bug under a microscope, and Sherlock's not letting go.

"You seem uncomfortable."

"I _am_ bloody uncomfortable." As if he could be anything else. He's sure his cheeks are flaming with embarrassment. He'd run away but Sherlock has longer legs.

"Why does this make you uncomfortable?" And then Sherlock is _there_, invading John's personal space as he is so wont to do, as per usual at _exactly the wrong time_. He swivels again in his seat and scoots the chair forward until he's practically knee-to-knee with John, and there is no escape. Good lord, it's _warm_ in here. Would it be too obvious to open a window?

"Would you please just – stop – _staring_ at me?"

"Why? You're fascinating."

John swallows hard. "For the love of God, Sherlock. This isn't funny."

He's so close John can see his individual eyelashes. In the firelight they glow almost ginger.

"Quite right. I see nothing funny about this." Then his hand is somehow. Impossibly. Maddeningly. Infuriatingly on John's thigh. The hell this isn't funny. "Your nostrils are flaring. Heart rate increased. John Watson, does talking about sex arouse you?"

John doesn't mean to close his eyes, but it's too much. He gasps because this is stifling. All of it. Not how he'd planned on spending his evening. "Please remove your –" No, that's too hard. The words catch in his throat. He settles for, "Talking about sex does... I suppose... arouse anyone. A little. Sherlock, please would you just –"

Cool fingers brush his cheek. "You're flushed, John."

Of course he is. Burning up every place his body connects to Sherlock's. Whose bloody brilliant idea was it to build a fire, anyway? "No bloody wonder."

Then, somehow, impossibly, Sherlock is kissing him. Just a brush of smooth, wide lips against John's own. It's barely started when it's already over and John is left aching, horribly empty. "You taste like tea," Sherlock says, his voice low in his chest in a way that really ought not to be legal.

John stares blankly. He might half-garble something, but it's hard to say, because his brain has completely and utterly stopped working.

"Not good?" Sherlock's brow creases.

"No!" The wrong thing to say. Shit. John fumbles. "I mean. I don't know." Oh god. "Could you, er. Do it again?" His heart wasn't hammering this hard when they were dashing across London earlier. What is happening to him?

It's too late, though. Sherlock's already moving away. Standing. He crosses to the window in two, long strides, absently tracing his lips with the tips of his impossible fingers. "That was unexpected," he says. "Forgive me" His voice isn't quite steady.

Was there something to forgive? "Forgiven," John says. Because, really, what else is there to say?

Sherlock tugs at his curls as if in agony. "Was it – did it –? This isn't really my area, John."

As if John needed reminding. He's never seen Sherlock at a loss for words before. There's something distinctly endearing about it. "It's not my area either. I've never, er." Oh, Harry was going to give him hell.

"Tried it with a man?" As always Sherlock is tearing through John's defences, seeing through all the walls the doctor wasn't even aware he'd thrown up to protect himself from the man who's suddenly kneeling in front of him again. Breathtaking. Soft fingers brush his face again, forcing him to meet Sherlock's eyes. "It's absolutely nothing to be embarrassed by. I'm assured this is what Mycroft and Lestrade do all the time."

The unexpectedness of the image Sherlock's just flung at him derails John's protest that no he's not really embarrassed. "Mycroft and _Lestrade_?"

Sherlock blushes slightly and it's ridiculously attractive. "Was I not supposed to mention that right now?"

Ordinarily, no. Not the time to bring up your brother's sex life. But god. John mumbles something. Probably that Sherlock's blushing.

"As are you, dear Doctor Watson." Sherlock reaches up to cup John's face between his hands, and there's no escape.

"I –"

"You could kiss me again, if you like." He bites his lip. "You don't have to. Erm."

John tries to speak, but it's maddeningly difficult trying to get words out.

"It's all fine," Sherlock says, so quickly that the words blur together. "I'll just –" He moves as if to disengage.

John grabs his wrists to hold him in place, because it's really the only logical thing to do anymore. "Don't."

And then he clings to Sherlock, because Sherlock is the only thing that makes sense right now. The taller man's thumbs trace the lines of John's face, and breathing is impossible.

"Fascinating," Sherlock says.

He stares at John with those perplexing eyes until everything is fuzzy. No thoughts. No coherent thoughts. "Don't – stare," John chokes, because really, how can Sherlock expect him to say _anything_ fascinating right now?

"Are you going to kiss me again, or do I have to do everything?" Is he annoyed? It's hard to tell. His voice is like molasses. Slow. Deep. The curl of his mouth is amused. "Your sense of propriety is quaint but unnecessary given the circumstances."

"Please just shut up."

And then, yes. John is kissing Sherlock and the world goes a bit wobbly. Sherlock sighs, a breath that feels like silk and taste like – and his eyes flutter shut, and his body goes limp against John's like a surrender. John buries his fingers in Sherlock's curls and is unsurprised to find them as lavish and ridiculous as the rest of the man.

For an infinite moment, they are silent, drinking each other in. Absorbing each other. Sherlock's long, inhuman fingers slip nimbly down John's spine, setting off a cascade of shivers so strong John has to pull away. Instead, he hides his face in Sherlock's long, elegant neck, and Sherlock strokes his hair softly.

"Was that so hard, then?" There's a smile in his voice.

John realises several things in quick succession, and blushes. "N-not hard. I, erm." He gropes wildly for the nearest pillow and plants it firmly on his lap. He is burning again. "Nice. It was nice."

Sherlock frowns at the pillow like it's offended him personally. "You shouldn't feel the need to hide anything from me. I said, John, it's all fine."

"I'm not _hiding_ anything," John says hotly.

Sherlock just laughs and pulls John to him again, hot, quick tongue darting between John's lips. John moans, quite forgetting himself, and reaches out to lay his hand over Sherlock's heart, which is beating at least as hard as his own. Sherlock knocks the pillow away and says John's name low and gravely like John's never heard it before, and then he's laughing again. The sensation sounds vibrations tingling down to the base of John's skull.

"Don't stop."

Sherlock's fingers slip under John's jumper, and he jumps at the contact. Cold. He reaches for Sherlock, then pauses. Sherlock's all hard lines and angles. John is pitifully used to soft curves. Breasts. What is he doing?

"I'm not very good at this," he says lamely.

"You're fine." Sherlock traces the curve of his hip. "You're more than fine. You are brilliant." His nose nudges against John's collarbone and he inhales, smelling him. Smelling John. John has never felt so protected in his life. "I hope you're not uncomfortable."

He is melted. Utterly and completely – ruined – by this man. If he's even a man. It's too much for his brain to process all at once. There's a whiff of something – Sherlock's hair, perhaps – that is perfect and indecipherable, but it's gone as quickly as it came. He bites his lip to keep from moaning as Sherlock's breath wafts against his collarbone.

"On the contrary," he chokes. "I'm quite – comfortable."

"I do hope you're not over thinking this," Sherlock says against his skin. "You seem... tense. Just relax."

"Relax?" John laughs, high and nervous. "I'm not over thinking anything." He lets his gaze wander over Sherlock, at his feet. "It's hard to think at all right now."

"Why?" Sherlock is everywhere, pulling him closer, hands reaching, fingers flying. Sherlock is a miracle, John thinks, half-dazed. "Tell me everything." As if he can't understand why the mere proximity of him would scramble John's thoughts, doesn't know how intoxicating the perfume of his own breath can be, doesn't realise that John has been guilty of dreaming about this for months now, but has never dared – and now that Sherlock is here, like a dream himself, or an effigy –

"How can you be _real_?" John manages. He dares to nibble at the corner of that magnificent jaw, and Sherlock tastes very real indeed. Not sweet and perfumed like a woman, but that's never what John would have imagined in his most guilty of fantasies. No, Sherlock tastes of sweat and of cold, of London and of fire. Sherlock is electric. John can feel the crackling where their skin touches. Those impossibly clever eyes are ablaze with intrigue, interest. He's looking at John as if John were the most precious thing in the world, and it's at the same time humbling, breathtaking, and humiliating. No one has ever looked at John like that.

He licks his lips slowly, then plants shallow kisses up Sherlock's neck, resisting the very thing his mind and heart scream at him to do. This is one thing. More than John could ever have hoped for. But what John _needs_ – that's a different story altogether. Another step. Much bigger. Much more terrifying. If kisses are like sidewalks, then John's desire is like crossing the busiest street in London blindfolded. Dangerous. This ought to be enough for now.

He relishes Sherlock's skin against his lips and savours the taste of fire and ice combined. Because that's what Sherlock is. More than that. Everything. His kisses turn to shallow biting as he edges closer to the dip in Sherlock's collarbone.

"How can _this_ be real?"

"I'm here, John." Sherlock pulls away to cup his face again, hands both glacial and burning at the same time. His eyes are still blazing. He watches intently as John struggles to catch his breath. John can practically see him storing every last twitch away somewhere in that massive brain for further processing. "I'm always here. I always have been. You should have said so sooner. Why didn't you?"

The question is like a bucket of ice water. What are they doing? John feels his mouth go dry. Answers half form and die on his lips, under the intent scrutiny of those bright eyes. He was never sure – not really sure that he wanted this. That he could want this. But now that he's living it there was never any doubt. He needed this more than air.

"I don't know," he says, before he thinks too hard about it. And then – "Fuck." He clenches his fists. The silence in the room is deafening. It's the sound of Sherlock thinking.

"You didn't want it," Sherlock says flatly, exercising - _misusing_- that horrid tendency he has to read John's mind. "I see." And he stands. At once, John is cold. Alone. Wanting. He wants to reach out for Sherlock, but the distance between them is overwhelming.

"I didn't – no! That's not it!"

"I was your experiment in homosexuality." His usually deep, smooth voice is rough with emotion John doesn't want to make sense. "I understand."

John has the dizzying suspicion that this was supposed to work the other way around, that Sherlock would be the one experimenting and he, John, would be the one hurt. Because Sherlock was so unshakeable, unbreakable. And yet here they are. Now that Sherlock is standing John can tell he's not even aroused, but somehow even that doesn't matter. There is no greater honour than to hold so much of Sherlock Holmes' attention. To bring the unbeatable man to his knees.

Oh, fuck. He's spoiled everything, hasn't he?

In a very small voice, John says, "I thought you were married to your work."

Sherlock's face freezes with surprise. Then he's back kneeling before John, pulling the smaller man into his arms. Somehow they wind up in a tangle on the floor, John on top of Sherlock, miraculously not crushing the rail-thin body beneath him as Sherlock clings to him like a drowning man.

"You ridiculous man," he says, between butterfly kisses that make John's vision quite fuzzy. "You absurd, ridiculous man. I've never had a partner before. Didn't I tell you? I'd be _lost_ without my blogger. You became my work a long time ago. You. Always you, John."

If this is Sherlock's way of romancing, John thinks hysterically, it'd not work on anyone else. But this is Sherlock, and no one understands him quite the way John does. John rolls to pin Sherlock to the floor, and worms in as close as is physically possible.

"I thought I wasn't really your area."

They're laughing, both of them. Great belly laughs that connect them in ways that make John's head spin and his stomach flip. This feels _right_ in ways that nothing else ever has. Because it's Sherlock. Because it never could have been anyone _but_ Sherlock.

The consulting detective and his army doctor.


End file.
